It takes a while, Declan considering other infeasible options that don’t involve breaking and entering, but eventually we come up with a rough plan. Get inside; watch the remaining videos, focusing on the ones that feature room 11, Ellery’s room; get the evidence; get out.
We wait until the sounds from the other rooms have fizzled out and silence has covered the Royal Hotel like a blanket. When theclock finally ticks over to midnight, we tiptoe out of the room, down the stairs, and through the front door of the hotel, barely daring to exhale.
And then we’re out in the night, the air immediately smelling like danger. I glance upwards, prepared for the glittering show the night sky usually puts on, but tonight the stars are hidden behind a rolling curtain. The faint smell of smoke from earlier seems stronger, and I remember the wildfire warnings. They must be getting closer. But the realization doesn’t ignite fear. If anything, it’s motivating. I pick up the pace as we head to the Inn. I need to get to those videos before it’s too late.
At one point, Declan slips his hand into mine, my fingers coming alive at his touch. Neither of us acknowledge it. We just continue walking, fingers laced. Even in the face of everything, the lies, the truths, the history, this feels good. Right.
But any warm feelings fade as we approach the Inn.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it looks like an entirely different place than it was this morning. Police tape is looped around the parking area where Randy’s crappy pick-up truck and our useless rental cars still sit, forgotten like some never-visited monuments. The front of the building looks even more run-down, more desolate than it does in the daytime.
I stop and take it in, the reality of what we’re about to do finally hitting me. Declan squeezes my hand in his, and when I look over, his eyes are clear, reassuring. It’s enough to propel me forward.
As we approach the door, I pull my hand from Declan’s and begin searching around the building for either a spare key or somethinglarge enough to crash through one of the windows.
“Wait,” he whispers, going instead to the door. He places his hand softly on the handle, and it turns easily under his palm, the door opening without resistance.
“Well, that was easier than expected,” I say with a slight chuckle, and I wait to feel relief, but realization strikes me instead. Randy wouldn’t simply leave the building unlocked. That would be too easy.
I hear a small noise from somewhere nearby. An unidentifiable sound filtering through the night. There’s something off about all of this; I just can’t tell what it is.
“Randy must not have locked up after the police left.” Declan shrugs, and I nod as if I believe him, but I notice the white crease in his forehead that tells me he shares my hesitation. I remember from last time we were here that Randy has an apartment in town. It’s where he spends his nights.
We tiptoe in, neither of us daring to turn on the lights, reaching our hands out straight ahead as our eyes adjust, feeling as we go to avoid colliding with anything. An eerie darkness drapes over the lobby.
After a few steps, my eyes begin to adjust. I take in the front desk, the small table and chairs, and I find myself aching for a time when our full group would sit together each morning for breakfast, before losing Tomas, and Phoebe, and then Hari, and now possibly Kyan. Before everything went so drastically wrong.
Finally, we reach the door to the closet where Randy keeps the computer. I pull it open, preparing to step forward. But I stop short.
The chairs we sat in earlier are folded up neatly against the wall,the stacks of boxes still in place.
But the computer is gone.
“No.” My voice is loud, too loud.
“Maybe the police found it,” Declan says, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe that. He seems like he’s about to say something more, but before he can, a noise hits my eardrums. Loud and savage. A grunt.
My spine stiffens, every muscle in my body tensing. Someone’s here.
The sound comes again, followed by another pause.
Declan and I freeze.
It’s coming from out back, and I walk from the closet to the rear door, noticing a light through the window that wasn’t there when we walked in.
I move towards it to peer out, but as I do, a figure fills the window.
“Claire!” Declan whispers urgently. But it’s as if my muscles are frozen, my feet glued to the floor. I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist as he yanks me away from the door just as it flies open, inches from me.
We manage to make it a few steps away so that we’re standing at the bottom of the staircase, our backs flattened against the wall, by the time the door ricochets right where I’d been standing seconds ago.
The figure that comes into the lobby is breathing hard, anger radiating off him. I force myself even further into the wall.
He’s so close that his smell wafts into my nostrils. A musty, familiar scent.
Randy.
He doesn’t turn on the lobby light, and I send up a silent prayer of gratitude. If he did, he would surely see us. Instead, he moves forward to the closet, and I realize, with a stab of regret, that we never shut its door. He grunts again, muttering something under his breath, and slams it shut.
